


Last Theater

by SugarBabyGenji



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Body Horror, M/M, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Rating May Change, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Unhealthy Relationships, eldritch vibes, i have NO IDEA what to tag this as dear LORD, i'm going to tag it as 'angels' but like, they're not really angels so much as eldritch abominations, what's a tag for soul violation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-02 09:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13315758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarBabyGenji/pseuds/SugarBabyGenji
Summary: [Celestial!AU] Shiro judges human souls, peeling them like oranges day in and day out for the sake of universal balance. For two hundred years, he's faithfully and impartially judged each soul he's ever come across - that is, until a certain soul falls on his lap, and he finds himself at an impasse.





	1. I gave up my thoughts

It was almost time to leave for the day.

Streaks of sunset filtered through the trees, painting the clearing with hues of orange and red and golds.

Shiro was idly wondering what he would do once his work was done for the day. If it was a typical day, he’d be down with the other Clava at Altea, swapping stories of the day’s workload. Most days, that’d be his norm, but he wasn’t feeling it lately. Hunk was calling it the “Bicentennial Blues”, but Shiro wasn’t convinced.

It’s not like his work was suffering. Quite to the contrary, he was growing increasingly efficient with his work, and Allura had been pleased with his dedication to his work.

Maybe he wouldn’t go to Altea tonight, he thinks, beckoning the second to last soul for the day towards him. He’s really not in the mood for the others’ forced attempts at “cheering him up”. He’s perfectly fine. Even “Mr. Social” as Lance calls him needs a day or two to himself every once in a while.

The soul that he’s about to judge zigzags towards him, almost like a fish on a line, desperately struggling against its fate. He pulls it again, a harsher gesture with his claw, and Shiro starts as the soul almost seems to snap at him, despite it’s minuscule size.

He chuckles, both amused and surprised, as the soul finally plops gracelessly into his hand and appears to melt, almost as if sulking. This one’s compact, with a wispy, champagne shimmer whispering over its white core. Sometimes even beautiful souls do resist, he reminds himself dutifully, even if he couldn’t remember the last time  _any_ soul did so.

He strokes it with his hands gently, trying to soothe it. Souls were not easy to judge when riled, although Shiro couldn’t speak to how soothing it would be to be pet with his long, rakishly thin skeleton hands. They were most likely cold, having no skin or adornments to speak of, but Shiro really had no way of telling. He was careful not to sink the claws at the end in, else he start the judgment - he stroked the soul gently with what would be his palm, carefully, as if he was petting a kitten. It lessened it’s angry vibrating in his other hand, eventually becoming more or less still. Shiro chuckles again, as the soul refuses to loosen up, instead becoming a tight, tense ball in his hand.

That’s alright, he thinks. Souls are not always pliant. Each one is different.

He readies his claws, the clearing around him going deathly silent. A clacking is heard, echoing like wooden chimes in a gust of wind. Then, he plunges them into the soul resting in his claws.

The skin resists, tight and viscous like jelly. Shiro plunges his claws in a little bit more, but the surface tension is too great - the skin is not pierced, but quivers as he applies more pressure.

Shiro frowns. The second to last soul for the day had to be difficult, didn’t it?

But this was his work. All Clava, himself included, chose this path, and he would hold true. Bicentennial blues or no, he would judge this soul.

It flickers in his hand, the champagne shifting over it like clouds over a moon, shifting like sand. In awe, he watches it for a moment while the gold shimmers and fades like waves crashing on a shore. A strong, resilient soul, Shiro decides. But as it rolls in his hand, he hears a deep-seated rumbling below.

A storm below his jurisdiction was starting, and Shiro would no doubt want to watch.

He hesitates for a moment. This soul, second to last...he’s never reached such an impasse before. It warms his clacking bones the longer he holds it.

Is it possible it’s just him? Shiro has never taken a sabbatical, being fanatically dedicated to his work - he could be overworked. Pidge says it’s unhealthy to work for so long, as they continue to overwork themselves routinely. But as he reels the other one in quickly, it nebulously flocking him like a sheep to a shepherd...

He pierces its protective membranes delicately, like peeling a raw egg without trying to break the yolk, and like an egg, the shell is overwhelmingly easy to split. Memories wash over him, and he condenses and picks through them like pan sifting for gold. Only a few key memories would matter - and these glow in his minds eye like precious jewels amongst the slurry.

The judgement is over quickly, and the sun has freshly set when he is done. Shiro can’t think of what he even passed on that chartreuse soul - many recent judgments he struggles to remember. When had his job become so routine? He used to make a point of remembering at least one memory and the judgment of every soul that passed through his bone claws.

The cream colored soul drifts back into his sightline, and he clacks his hands again, this time with his beak. Judgment would be passed.

Instead, he finds himself an hour later, with the earth of his garden split in front of him. A storm wages below him, a tempestuous cacophony of crashing waves and spitting thunder. He would watch tonight the storm that passed below him, as he always had whenever the weather saw fit to pass under his realm.

The soul floats next to him, hovering, as if it too can watch the storm. Shiro glances at it in frustration, but continues his watch.

The other celestials that work along side him - they don’t understand why exactly Shiro watches the storms below him. After all, they were a cause of stress for them and their workload, and the “no interference” rule applied to everyone, including Shiro.

What they didn’t know was that if Shiro found someone, he would rescue them. It hadn’t happened in quite a while, and had only happened twice - but what the other Clava didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. He knows that the others have each broken the strict rules in their own strives, trying to find their own path as a beast of judgment.

His gaze slides back to the soul that’s within his wingspan’s reach, just out of the reach of his claws. Make that two rules he’s broken then.

His conscience wavers. He should surrender this soul to Allura to be sent elsewhere to be judged. It wasn’t fair to have the soul remain here, in the land of in between, while he uncharacteristically waffled on what he wanted to do. That would be the *right* thing to do, of course, and Shiro knows it.

But the thought of this soul being judged by someone else...of having their tools of judgement touch the soul and feel that same warmth...it gives Shiro pause. Jealousy would be the closest human word for it, but...Shiro was not human. He could not feel the depth of emotion that humans could, nor did he look even remotely close to human to try and pass for one. So what was this feeling that makes cold shivers run down his spine, poofing out his feathers protectively?

He knows it’s the reason he hasn’t already gone to her. He should’ve, the minute he was unable to pass judgment the first time. Maybe as a Clava, he’s broken. Allura and all the others had always said that he was suited for this line of work, that’s why he was even presented with the choice in the first place.

He clacks his beak in frustration and whisks the soul into his cloak, blacker than night. It was a cloak made of the cloth of the void, that shifted like the gasses of Jupiter the longer one looked. Allura had given it to him as an acceptance gift, all those centuries ago, when he’d forgone eternal rest.

He would go to her after the storm passed. It would be soon, given the strength of the winds and the clouds’ quick passed. He would keep a sharp eye out for souls bereft in the storm, and he would then go to her. She was his superior, she would know what to do.

The storm passed, but Shiro still feels on edge. His feathers still prickle out, and refuse to go down. He’s not afraid of confronting Allura. She would know what to do. What he’s afraid of is exactly what he’s feeling.

It’s been a few days. He didn’t go to Allura, and nor did he go to the Altea, though his friends are surely missing him at the bar. Instead, he holed up with the soul. He judged souls, certainly, resolute in his duties, but he in the brief moments of peace he had, he let the soul rest in his hand.

It didn’t seem to like it in his cloak, for while it was as infinite and unending as the void was itself, Shiro imagined that most human souls wouldn’t appreciate such a place. It would seem lonely, he reasons, for the soul always seems smaller, dimmer, when he initially takes it out. Soon enough, though, it’s the exact same as it was on its supposed judgment day.

He sits in amicable silence with the soul, letting it wander around his grove as much as it pleases. It wouldn’t be much for communication, he figures, as while it used to belong to a sentient being, it would most likely be unable to comprehend any sort of communication Shiro would try with it. That’s not counting Shiro’s visage as what would probably be absolutely horrific to most humans.

He beckons it towards him as soon as he has a break, as he always does, and he finds himself faintly smiling when it comes right towards him. He pets it again, just as he did when he first received it, and while the soul did not initially appear to like it, it now rests in his hand solidly, trusting.

He’s careful to avoid the claws, as always, but the past few days have made him curious. This was the first soul that he absolutely could not pierce. Others were harder, like a puzzle sphere that needed to be pressed in a certain way; others still were slippery and he had to go in at an angle; others yet peeled like wet paper off a window and he needed to be delicate, lest he destroyed the soul. He had never come across such a resilient soul.

He mentally checks another reason to go to Allura on his list, and sighs when he realizes he’s just wracking up more guilt, without any actual conviction behind it.

And then, he looks down, as he feels his index claw grow hot. He stares as red, vivid like roses, drips innocently off the barbed tip. He’d pierced the soul accidentally, and the memory falls into his mind like being plunged into an ice cold lake.

It’s blurry and messy, but Shiro sees it anyways - a young boy, with black hair and sharp eyes and even sharper words. Shiro can only watch as he sits on a cement stoop outside a rundown building, staring out as snow falls gently from the sky. His shoes and coat are tattered, his left knee is freshly skinned, but he isn’t crying. He’s huddled stalwartly, instead, on that stoop. Shiro gets the impression that he’s strong, stronger than that small frame could ever hope to hold.

“Keith?” A voice calls out, but that’s it, that’s all Shiro can see before he comes to in his garden. Questions plague him, rotating around and around in his head, but he knows he’ll get no answers even if he could have someone to ask them of.

So the soul belonged to a human named Keith. It floats above him, almost hovering worryingly. Certainly, having a giant skeletal vulture-like beast collapse in the middle of his own garden must be upsetting. Shiro rights himself with a hefty flap of his wings, and brushes the grass off his feathers. Despite looking like an idiot, he feels like he's soaring.

Now, he has a name to call the soul. He finds himself with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye that he hasn’t felt in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I was unable to judge a soul, I would take it to Allura.” She picks back up smoothly. “That would be the correct course of action.”

The first thing he does at the start of the next day is call Keith over from where he was floating by the day lilies. He glides over smoothly, and Shiro flaps his wings a little in greeting.

There’s something he has to check, something he should’ve checked the moment he was unable to judge Keith’s soul.

He spreads his hands out, the bones separating at the joints. Between them, a silver bracelet materializes after a brief glow, synthesizing into the warm spring air with a gleam. His joints reconnect with a small chime, and he reaches out to clasp the bracelet in his left claw.

He beckons Keith’s soul over, and weighs it in his right. Light and airy, it instantly warms his hand. His bones rattle the slightest bit at the heat, but he doesn’t drop Keith - souls are too precious to be dropped. Shiro certainly wouldn’t want his dropped, if he still had one.

He tears his eyes off Keith’s soul, instead looking at the bracelet. What had once been smooth turned icy blue, spreading out from the middle of the device. Shiro almost drops the bracelet, feeling his shock turn to horror.

The small device is completely iced over, frost crackling along its edges, innocently gleaming beneath. Shiro this time does drop it, almost viciously throwing it away, and he doesn’t notice when it sinks in to the earth, evaporating like sunbeams.

Instead, he cradles Keith’s soul close. He strokes it, more careful than he was last time. Such a small, tiny soul, full of so much strength. Certainly, Shiro could think upon that sad memory and draw many conclusions - but instead, it’s the flash of those purple eyes at the end that sear into his memory. He can’t forget them, so full of life and fire and heat, sparking with resilience, with everything that Shiro absolutely adores about humanity. In one glance, Keith had managed to show more raw humanity than Shiro could even remember existed. Those eyes, so sharp, like knives, like broken glass, vicious and angry and raw.

Shiro couldn’t explain why he kept Keith’s soul. He had no memories other than the one he’d accidentally received. He couldn’t have known that such fire could exist in a human anymore, but now that he had seen it, he found himself desiring more. He wanted to know if that was a one time thing, or if Keith had always been like that. What was he like as a child? What kind of adult did he grow into?

All forbidden questions that Shiro shouldn’t be asking, but couldn’t find himself to stop. Human lives flashed before him on parade every working hour. Keith’s memory was not so different from others that he had witnessed, truly, but rather, there was something about Keith that stood out amongst the slurry. Shiro knows if he peels that soul’s instinctive, protective barrier back, exposing the delicate jelly-like substance below, he can have all the memories he wants. It’s tempting, but he finds that while he’s curious, the bracelet takes precedence.

Sometimes, when a Clava judges a soul, they think they judged wrongly. There are really only two options for sorting souls, and for most, it was an easy process. Many humans lived an ordinary live, and would be separated into the reincarnation list. Other times, they were terrible, their soul was corrupted, and reincarnation would only serve to further a cycle of terrible lives. Then, they would be sent to the void. But sometimes the answer wasn’t clear cut, and a Clava regretted their judgement.

That was when the bracelet came in. It was more or less a way of judging whether or not a soul was sent to the void or in line to be reincarnated and would gather the user’s energy to pull the soul back to the Clava. In this case...Keith’s soul was being judged as in the void.

If Shiro keeps this soul, will it eventually leak into the void? Will it wither like a flower, bright and crisp in its beauty, only to wilt days, weeks, months later?

Keith’s soul would be wasted in the void. He knows this, but he’s unable to send Keith to be reincarnated, either. Most of him screams that he’s no longer impartial, that the minute the first judgement failed he forfeited his right to pass it at all. He should give up the soul before it melts into the void.

Instead, he rolls it around in his hand. It wibbles and wobbles, making him think of mochi. It’s been a long time since he’d thought of food, about how much time it took up of his day, about how it was not only enjoyment found in eating itself, but in the people who shared the meal with you. Such a simple act that not only meant you were alive, but also, gave simple joy and meaning to the life you were living.

Shiro doesn’t smile, despite the fond, vague memories rolling along his bones, his feathers, his wings. He doesn’t do anything but nudge the tiny sphere around in his hand with the back of his claws.

Then, the temptation peaks again. He could see what it was like to enjoy a meal again, if he pricked Keith’s soul shell like he did the other day. He hasn’t seen any memories since, but...he could. It was his right as the Clava assigned to Keith’s case. He would eventually need to see them all, sooner rather than later, but something was holding him back.

One memory would not hurt, though. It may lead to another, and an eventual judgment. If Shiro had lips, he would lick them, but alas, the garden goes silent, as if sensing his intentions. A clack, like a knock on a door, like a clock hand striking midnight with a fierce tick, and it begins.

Keith’s shell is tough again, but not unbreakable like it was. Instead, after rolling it around delicately, Shiro can feel a chink in it, and he digs in hungrily.

He picks a memory that feels like it’s about food. Keith’s sitting at a large table in a chair that’s far too large for his tiny child frame. The room is clad in a cloak of dark wood, and the room looks as though it smells like mildewed books and dust that hadn’t been disturbed since the dawn of time. Nothing about the room shone; it reeked of death, of hopelessness, of despair. Shiro didn’t need to be there to feel the breadth of sorrow that hung as densely as oxygen in the atmosphere.

Keith sits alone, all the other chairs straight and even like tombstones in a military cemetery. In front of him, a severe matronly woman who seems to be the source of the stench of death. As he hovers behind tiny Keith, he doesn’t need to be a Clava in order to know that this woman would be sent to the void.  
She’s saying something, but Keith isn’t actually listening. Her words are jumbled like scrambled radio transmissions, and his memories are foggy around the edges, like a camera lens fogging after being outside in the cold. He sits ramrod still, and Shiro, without even hearing what she’s saying, fights the urge to wrap his wings around Keith. His wings were made to protect him against demons and spells, spirits and the ilk of void’s underbelly, but they would not help here.

They would not fill the empty plate in front of Keith, nor would they fill the empty void Shiro can feel inside the young child, both in the stomach and heart.

Shiro’s seen enough, and he leaves of his own volition. The soul quivers for a moment, before wandering off somewhere into the misty morning sun of the clearing, and Shiro sits deathly still.

His wings twitch, his claws ache, and the cherry red viscera of Keith’s soul drips off his claws.

He stares as it leaks like a faucet. His hands, so different than Keith’s. His beak, long and narrow and carved of bone. Arms and chests and thighs of feathers, wings made of night sky. So different, but Shiro can understand that deep seated pain in Keith’s chest that came not solely from hunger. It’s that kind of pain you get under the night sky, when the crickets come out and you’re watching the stars, eternally unable to sleep, only able to think.

He finds himself unwilling to see more of Keith’s memories. He doesn’t want to dig further into Keith’s sad soul. The glimpses of memories he got - there were no gems, no shining fragments that Shiro could glean from. Just memories, none of them standing out. Perhaps that was why he was unable to judge Keith’s soul. Or, perhaps, it was because what the bracelet had said - by effectively robbing Keith of his fate, he was now already considered in the void.

But what did he really have to offer Keith? His world was calm, serene, like a pocket of hidden forest. Beautiful, but it was more like a beautiful mirage than anything of real substance. His judging throne rests like the deepest shadow under a massive japanese maple. Wagtails and finches decorate the branches and brush like beads dotting a necklace, and squirrels race up and down the trees, scared by the green pheasants darting about and white-tailed eagles occasionally watching from above. Beautiful indeed, a glade of wonder and beauty, if any of it was actually real.

He wanders around the grounds of his realm, sticking mostly to the clearing in which his throne rests. The world he’d inherited he’d made his own, full of animals he could still remember dashing through his childhood streets right alongside him, but it still felt foreign, like a glove with fingertips that pinched just a little too tight and palms that were a little too loose.

He could disappear any of the hawks above him that kept a wary, watchful eye of this large predator below them, jealously guarding their young. Even the pheasants that squealed and ran like mice as his looming shape passed, he could simply will away. It wasn’t real, even if the birds continued to live and die and the maple continued to flourish and grow. It only did so because he willed it to.

But then, Keith’s soul was counted as being in the void. Shiro may have robbed him of his fate, whatever that may be, but at least he did not truly reside in the void. Shiro had been there once.

He refused to go back.

He wonders what would happen if he were to leave his realm with Keith inside. Would Keith, too, be suspended in a timeless crystal, only to resume artificial life when he called upon it? Or would Keith wisp away into the void?

Shiro whisks Keith’s soul up into his claws. Whatever was said about the Clava - oh, and there was much, much said about their terrible evil - he would not abandon this soul after selfishly stealing it away. He would not let it wither. He would nourish it however he could, and watch it grow along with his beautiful artificial garden.

He tucks the soul into his shifting cloak and ignores the whispers of his conscience tickling the back of his skull.

\------

Altea’s quiet when he arrives, signalling that most other Clava haven’t arrived yet. A hunched, speckled set of wings at the bar tells him, however, that he isn’t alone. He finds himself pulling up a stool next to them, clacking a few times in greeting.

She clacks back, and flaps her thin, tapered wings once, before resuming the writings she was working on.

“Busy today?” Shiro asks, ignoring the piercing gaze of the other Clava.

“I was,” She state sharply, “But now that you’re here, I’ll have to interrogate you on what’s going on.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, ignoring the bartender who keeps trying to catch his eye. He’s not up for trying to be corralled into drinking today; fortune has finally smiled down upon him. “What for, Pidge?” Shiro’s sure that if she could, she’d be rolling their eyes. Instead, her piercing eyes are stabbing daggers into his cloak. Something about the set of her wings tells him he’s really in for it this time.

“I can’t stand those idiots by myself, you know that,” She hisses, “‘Where’s Shiro?’ They won’t stop badgering me, like I’m your personal secretary or something. I told them that there was a storm a night ago, but they forget every time what you’re like.”

“I can’t help it. You know I have to watch the storms. I have since before you were even a Clava.”

Pidge sniffs, but lets it slide. Pidge is commonly referred to as the youngest Clava of the bunch, even though Lance is far newer. She says it’s because of her size, and quietly, Shiro agrees. He’s more than twice her size, dwarfing her, and no one has ever assumed him to be new. He would never tell her that though - he only tells her that her bird, the brown falcon, is gorgeous, and they’re all just jealous of her dappled wings.

“So, where have you been?” Direct and to the point. He could live with that kind of attitude in his life, it’s one of the reason that they became such fast friends after she had ascended. She didn’t beat around the bushes, preferring to machete her way right through them with her words.

“Around,” He answers, ignoring her rustling in irritation. He knows that she knows she can’t really force him to answer, not like Allura. “I’ve been busy, trying to break my record.” Not a total lie, but not the whole truth. Pidge could sniff out lies like a bloodhound on a trail.

She hums, obviously not convinced. “You know it’s not good to work so much.” She’s scolding him, but fully realizes the absolute irony of her admonishments. She works just as much, as if not more, than he does. Still, he soothes her with agreeing, knowing full well that neither of them will ever stop pushing themselves.

“I have a question,” He begins, after she begins packing up.

“Alright.”

“Have you ever been able to not judge a soul?”

Pidge freezes. The bartender is nowhere to be found, and Shiro feels the fluttering of Keith’s soul in his cloak as he waits for an answer. They’re not going anywhere anytime soon, he has all the time in the world.

“No,” She says finally, but it’s not convincing. Her eyes, like daggers, always trained on the focus of her attention, are not looking at him. He feels his wings rustling slightly. Others looking at her would be convinced. Shiro knows her too well, after a century and some change. “Have you?”

“No,” He says, equally as unconvincing as her. They look at each other for long moments - her at his claws, his tools of judgement, her at her beak, with the ridged hook used to crack open a soul. “If I did, you know I would tell you, right?”

“Right. Just like I would tell you.”

Silence falls between them, and he can feel something when he looks at her. It’s the feeling he had when looking at Keith, in that musty dining room: the feeling of wanting to protect, to shield, to guide. Shiro wonders in the back of is mind what it means.

“If I was unable to judge a soul, I would take it to Allura.” She picks back up smoothly. “That would be the correct course of action.” She’s looking back down at her papers, her scaled hands straightening them into order.

A silence settles over them again, before Shiro says quietly, “It was hypothetical, of course.”

“Of course,” She responds, but she’s not looking at him again.

He wanders back to his realm, taking the elevator to his floor. Pidge’s floor flashes by him, the glowing neon lights taking him by surprise every time. Lance’s next, a beach themed fresco. Then, his own door, made of lacquered ebony with gold leaf maple leaves fluttering down it. 

“Taking it to Allura,” He repeats, softly, letting Keith’s soul flutter its way out from his void cloak. He watches it float, listlessly almost, into the mists of his garden, and sighs deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and all your support! I meant to post this chapter earlier, but college started back up again and I found time slipping away from me. :')

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy this self-indulgent work! I'll try to update as frequently as possible. The title and chapter names comes from Last Theater by Noisycell.
> 
> I imagine Shiro to look kind of like a Bloodborne boss, sort of like the Cleric Beast, more vulture-like. Pretty lame, but there you have it.


End file.
